


Ghosts In The Sun

by CalamityCain



Category: Jesus Christ Superstar - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gangsters, Drama & Romance, Gang Violence, M/M, Orphans, Rivalry, The power of friendship, star-crossed lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-15 23:00:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29940693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CalamityCain/pseuds/CalamityCain
Summary: (Gang rivalry AU) In a town ruled by ruthlessness where disloyalty is punishable by death, two lovers from opposing sides risk paying the price for passion.
Relationships: Jesus Christ/Judas Iscariot
Comments: 18
Kudos: 4





	1. Collision

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Saffiaan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saffiaan/gifts).



> The story is narrated largely by Simon, interlaced with POVs of other characters.

**~Prologue**

You’re early, friend. Care for a light? Or a drink? My treat; I’m buying. Don’t be a stranger. You came to me for a colourful tale, and I’m about to give you what you asked for. The best part is, all of it’s true.

It’s a love story, as most of the best stories are. Oh, don’t give me that jaded look. You’ve heard it all before, have you? So what if you have? Tales as old as time will keep telling themselves long after we’re dust. And I’ll keep telling mine until I’m dust. 

I talk more than I fight these days, anyways. Bones aren’t what they used to be, as my granddaddy said. (Not that I ever had a granddaddy; wish I did.) No longer as quick with a knife as I used to be; though I still welcome anyone to test my reflexes. Just because I don’t itch for a good fight once a week anymore doesn’t mean I couldn’t use one. Good for the old joints, I’ll bet. 

Anyway, I got all the ingredients you need to sell your yarn, if indeed you’re selling it. Tragedy, romance, death, drama, the works. I’ll try my best to do it justice. Listen, I’m getting this round, and if you feel like what I have to say’s worth staying for, you can buy the next. Alright?

Roz, bring us a bucket of your happy hour best. You’re a fine lady, you are.

Alright. Before we get started, we gotta set the players in place. The whole thing’s like a chessboard, see. On one side are the Salems: named for Jerusalem Row, the base of their operations. The network of streets stretching out all the way to the edge of Galilee’s their territory. On the other side of that line are the Galileans — known as the Gallies to their rivals — and they control the other half of town. Which is no longer the lawless place it was in our glory days, don’t you mind. Most of the guys from both sides are dead or retired. 

As for the lovers at the very centre of the board...well, no one knows no more. They disappeared off the face of the earth as far as we knew. And it’s best for them that none of us know more than that. They deserve to be left in peace. God knows they fought for it.

Funny sentiment, peace, innit? Never thought I’d chase it down like a hungry pup after it’s ma’s teat. I was born into a world where peace is for the dead. 

Anyway...the pieces have been set and the beer’s not getting any colder. So let’s begin, shall we?

* * *

The door of James Asluga’s shop — which housed a motley collection of antiques and handmade furniture — swung open to admit the collector, who cast a long menacing shadow in the slanted evening light. He stepped into the small, neatly crammed interior that smelt of leather and wood varnish and sawdust from the workshop in the back. Its proprietor offered a faltering smile that suggested neither of them would be getting what they wanted today.

“Late again, Asluga.”

“I know. I’m sorry, man. I’ll have the money by next week. I promise.”

Judas fixed him with a cool stare. “That’s what you said two weeks before.”

“I promised to try. And I did my damnedest, and with God as my witness, I pulled through. Next Friday, same time today, I’ll deliver.”

“You could have relocated to Galilean territory and saved yourself the trouble, you know. Your brother can’t protect you forever.”

“My brother and I haven’t spoken in years,” James replied softly, fingers tightening just a little on the counter’s edge. “And this is neutral ground. Always has been.”

“Well. If the Gallies won’t stake their claim, they’ll have to live with it becoming Salem ground. And so will you.” Judas stuck a cigarette between his teeth and flicked open his lighter. “Though I have to say, it’s a nice place you got here. Bit flammable, with all this wood, but nice.”

James didn’t miss the warning in those words. The bright orange glow of Judas’ burning cigarette made him shudder. As he was silently praying for the man to leave, the door swung open again to reveal a much more welcome presence. One hauling an exquisitely crafted wooden chair with a curved art nouveau back.

“Hey, James. I finished this over the weekend, and thought you might...oh.” 

Judas turned to see the man in the slightly rumpled shirt and threadbare scarf set down the chair in a corner, sensing that he had walked in on a tense encounter. James raised his hand in greeting. “Hey, J. That looks amazing.”

The strain in James’ face and voice prompted the other to ask: “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. End of the month, and all that. We all gotta pay our dues.” James’ eyes flicked to where his debt collector was looming over him. The wide, dark-lashed eyes narrowed in Judas’ direction. 

“So he’s the one who’s been threatening you.”

“It’s no big deal. I’ll have most of the money by next Friday.”

Judas leaned forward until James visibly shrank from his glare. “Funny. I was under the impression that you’d have  _ all  _ of it.”

“Leave him alone.” Jesus stepped forward, fingers curled into fists. Judas raised an eyebrow. “You’re not new to this town, are you?”

“I’ve been in it long enough to know it’s run by bullies like you.”

“That’s right. It is. Now take a hike.” Judas was about to resume his exchange with James when he felt a firm hand on his forearm, and looked in growing amazement at the brave if misguided soul whose ideals clearly overrode his survival instinct.

“Let him pay you what he can. I’ll fill in the rest.”

James shook his head. “Jesus, you’re just making rent as it is.”

“I’ll manage.”

“Jesus. That your name?” Judas exhaled a small cloud of smoke, causing Jesus to cough and back off, eyes watering but unwavering. He couldn’t help but be a little bit impressed by the irrepressible flame of righteousness as he slid closer until they could feel the warmth of each other’s breath. “I could slice you up right here and ruin that fine chair of yours with your blood,” he growled. “But you’ve got guts. I admire that.” 

Their forearms brushed as he walked out the door, causing a static-like tingle from the tension between them. “See you and your friend next Friday.”

Both James and Jesus exhaled shakily once he left the premises. “You shouldn’t have,” James said at last, stepping out from behind the counter to throw his arms around his friend. “He really could have gutted you, y’know.”

Jesus returned the hug. “I couldn’t let you face someone like that alone.” 

“I’ll be alright. They’ll still want their money before they resort to spilling my blood all over the furniture.”

Jesus shuddered. “Don’t say that.” He bit his lip before continuing: “Listen, not that I want anyone getting hurt or...or killed, but can’t you get Nathan to —”

He shook his head adamantly. “I still love my brother. And I’m sure the feeling’s still mutual. But I’d rather not have anything to do with the Gals.”

Jesus didn’t pursue the matter. James was an amiable man, but on this one matter he was immovable. He wanted nothing to do with the bloodshed and violence that came with the life his Galilean brother had chosen. Even as the Salems encroached on the narrow strip of neutral ground his business occupied, he would rather keep paying the rising rent imposed by his landlord than allow his older brother to exert his influence. Nathan had naturally taken his refusal of protection as a personal slight, and their bond had been strained ever since.

“That lovely armoire you spent ages on was taken by some rich eccentric lady two days ago,” he informed Jesus, changing the subject to something a little more cheerful. “Paid a fortune for it. In cash.” He pulled open the register and counted out a small stack of bills. “Your portion,” he said, pushing them into Jesus’ hand as the latter tried to refuse.

“Keep it. You need it more than I do right now. Every bit helps.”   


“Jesus, I’ve been to your apartment. That leak isn’t gonna fix itself. And you’re a carpenter, not a plumber.”

“Alright, then. I’ll take enough for my plumbing. And a week's groceries.” He laid half of the bills back on the counter. After a while, knowing Jesus wouldn’t budge, James sighed and took them.

“I don’t deserve you,” he said with a fond, resigned smile. “Someday, if I ever get out of here, I’m gonna make it up to you.”

Jesus squeezed his hand. “You will. Someday.”

* * *

Someday’s a sweet promise, ain’t it? Life’s full of ticking clocks as it is. Heck, life  _ is _ one big ticking clock. We all need our sweet delusions. Another beer? Don’t be coy about it.

Time for things to move along. You haven't met the younger me yet, have you? Well then, let me introduce myself to the story. The kids called me Zippo in those days, for my lighters. Always had at least two on my person. I have a thing for fire, see. Flame’s my first love: always has been, always will be. The day I die and get sent off, I’d like to be awake for my own damn cremation.

I’ve known Jesus since he was a delusional God-worshipping beanpole of a boy. But more on that later. For now, all you need to know is that we were fast friends...and this would lead to him getting in trouble later when our lives were pulled in opposing directions from two sides of the fence. You see, I was a hard-boiled Galilean boy. And Jesus was about to fall hard in love with a Salem.

* * *

Simon had a habit of turning up unannounced, banging cheerfully on the door of Jesus’ shabby but clean apartment until he was let in. He looked up as soon as he came in and smiled.

“I see you finally got that leak done up. Any longer and you’d have mould up the wazoo.”

"I've been harassing my landlady about it, and she finally got it fixed so I wouldn't have to.”

“Jesus, we both know you’re incapable of properly harassing someone unless it’s for selfless reasons. Should have asked me to do it.”

He chuckled. “I’ll keep that in mind the next time something else breaks down. Anyway, I used the spare cash to get my brakes fixed instead."

"Oh, good. Death by car crash narrowly averted."

"What've you got there?" He nodded at the two stuffed bags Simon was plonking onto the table.

“Well, see, I forgot I already stocked up on coffee and milk the week before. And I bought another truckload at a crazy sale last week. So...figured I should dump some of these on someone.” He shrugged.

“Thank you.” Jesus’ gratitude was mingled with the unspoken knowledge that Simon was lying through his teeth. But it had been an especially tight month, and such gifts were hard to turn down, regardless of pride.

“Listen. A friend of mine owns an apartment on the edge of upper Galilee. Rental’s about a hundred more than what you’re paying for this shithole, but if you had a roommate to split it with…”

“No. It’s fine.”

“At least check it out. I’ll get my mate to hold it for you. Here, look at that living room. And the queen-sized bed that’s definitely not falling apart the way yours is.” Simon scrolled through pictures on his phone, and Jesus’ heart ached sweetly at the well-outfitted kitchen he saw. He’d love to roll out dough on that island counter, and place the spice rack of his dreams on that shelf over there...

He sighed. “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I can’t just keep accepting favours from you. Not when I barely give anything in return."

Simon snorted. “For someone hell bent on charity, you sure have hang-ups about being on the receiving end.”

“It’s just — I...I can’t tell you how to live, Simon.” He folded his arms. “And I know why you chose the life you chose...but I…”

“You can’t accept stuff bought with 'dirty money'. I get it.”

Jesus averted his eyes and continued fiddling with his shirt tails as Simon continued. “Look. I know it’s not pretty. But that’s the way things work around here. Alright? Everyone has to pay someone off. Most people don’t even hurt that much for it.”

“Tell that to James. You think this place is bad? He barely has any furniture, which is ironic considering the nature of his business.”

"James is not on our turf," Sinon replied softly. "But if he was, you can be damn sure we'd take good care of him."

Jesus sighed. "It's the principle of the thing, Simon. If you had to force money out of me one day, or wreck my shop or house for some offense, would you?"

"Of course not."

"No. You'd get someone else to do it."

"I wouldn't let it happen at all." Simon threw an arm around his shoulder and gave him a squeeze, which failed to erase the frown from his brow. 

"You'd let it happen to someone who wasn't me, though."

It was Simon's turn to sigh. "You're impossible. You know that? Someday it's gonna get you killed."

He smiled, or tried to. "Thanks for the milk and coffee."

"Threw in a loaf of bread too. Should keep you in breakfast for a few days."

Jesus hugged him as he turned to leave. "You're too good to me."

Simon returned the gesture with a tight embrace. "Only 'cause you were good to me first." 

~

Destiny must have been bent on making their paths collide, thought Judas when he saw a lone figure trudging along the road he was on, that same threadbare scarf pulled tighter against the growing wind. 

It would be his third encounter with the man; the second had taken place just earlier today, when he had come to collect from James Asluga. James was in the company of his faithful friend, whose wide dark eyes faced him as fearlessly as they had the last time as he held out the neatly folded bills, letting Judas count them out in front of them.

“You’re lucky to have such friends, Asluga,” he said. “See you in three months’ time.”

As he passed by Jesus, they ended up inches from each other again, the soft breath tickling his face as they lingered on the spot for no particular reason. When a rush of colour rose in Jesus' face, he had felt the sudden urge to brush aside the stray lock of dark hair, to touch the soft blush-warmed skin. He had never felt this way about anyone before. And he couldn’t pin down the reason for it.

Sexual attraction in itself was hardly new. On his second day as a properly inducted Salem, Tomas, their leader — whom he also looked up to as a big brother — had pushed his moll onto Judas and told him to pleasure her “as a real man should”. She had wrapped her succulent limbs around him, all red lips and livewire sizzle, leaving a trail of bites on his neck the same as he marked hers. But in the end, the sex had been more of an obligation. Judas had never been inclined to form attachments; he took his pleasure or relief where he could find it, the exchanges transactional more often than not. Paid sex was uncomplicated, free of the need to pursue something lasting. Desire that led to longing led sooner or later to pain.

He stopped his bike by the side of the road without knowing why. By the time his better judgment pushed him to leave, Jesus had caught his gaze, and it was too late. 

“Did you sell your wheels to help out your friend?” he asked, a smirk masking the surge of fresh attraction.

“Missed the last bus. My car is still at the workshop.” He pulled his coat tighter around him as if shielding himself from Judas’ eyes. “What’s it to you, anyway?”

“Nothing.” He paused, then added: “Looks like you could use a ride, is all.”

Jesus was about to move on, but stood still and blinked at the offer. “Are you serious?” A sincere question, laced with a hint of shyness as he tucked a lock of hair behind his ear.

“Depends where you’re headed.”

When Jesus hesitated, he rolled his eyes. “I’m not going to stab you in an alleyway. You’ve no money and no affiliation. It’s a Friday night; I don’t need the hassle of disposing of a body.”

The morbid statement made Jesus shudder a little, but at the same time a smile teased the corner of his mouth. He gave Judas the name of the street where he lived, inching closer as he did so.

“I can drop you off on the main road. Should be a short walk to your block from there.”

He nodded gratefully. “I’d appreciate that.”

If he was surprised at the offer, Judas was even more surprised by it himself. But when he felt the warmth of Jesus’ body pressed against his as he rode into the night, the smell of that soft wavy hair tickling his senses, he couldn’t bring himself to regret it.


	2. Stray Doves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> childhood stories + Simon feels ahead

  
I told you earlier that I’ve known Jesus since he was a kid, and I ain’t lying. He was thirteen and I was eleven, although being on the street since I was old enough to tie my shoelaces — the things you’ve seen and done by then — makes you feel more like twenty.

The social workers who plucked me from my cramped, filthy house when I was about four told me later that my mother was a junkie. Dad left shortly after I was born and disappeared to God knows where, as such dads do. He’d had a drug habit too. I don’t know what he was shooting or smoking. As for mom, her poison of choice was smack; heroin as cheap as she could get it. That’s where most of the welfare money went. Funny thing was, I never got to really hating her for it. I was mad at those workers for taking her from me (which was how I saw it, not the other way round). Cried my eyes out until they allowed me to write her letters...though I never got a single reply. Maybe they just burnt those letters once I handed them over. Who knows?

Anyway, I was skinny as a bunch of twigs when they found me. Would probably be taller if I hadn’t been so malnourished. Though what I lacked in size I made up for by being a mean little motherfucker. And don’t you forget to put that in your tale.

We’re down to the last bottle. You getting the next round? Cheers, my friend. 

The sob story goes on, but it gets better. I was placed in a halfway home that later got shut down for secretly feeding us tranqs to keep us manageable. Pills to the gills, as we liked to say. Not that we complained. Heck, we tried to sneak whole pocketfuls and bottles of that shit before it all got carted away. Me absorbing my mama’s bad habits right there. The only other good thing about the place was the food: bland as all fuck, but in large enough quantities to feed scores of growing kids. That’s where my bones finally grew some meat on ‘em.

In the end, though, I couldn’t live with the boredom...the _sameness_ of life in such an institute. The drugs had helped. But once we were dry, that’s when the insanity started settling in. The rules got tighter and punishments steeper. They had to keep us in line somehow, and most of us had had a rough start in life. The older ones especially weren’t about to take shit from the wardens and teachers now that they no longer had their happy pills to coast along on. You can see that we were becoming a nice hellish den of savage little monsters. Who knows what I’d have become if I stayed?

So, with just enough learning to be literate, I bailed out and took to the streets where I lived until I met Eleazar. That’s Eleazar Khan, future leader of the Galileans, though he was little more than a low-rank thug then. Would you believe I was trying to pick his pocket? The way he stared me down, with biceps that looked like boulders to my juvie eyes. I really thought he was going to kill me! Instead he praised my stealth, broke my nose, then allowed me to tail him home where he let me have as much booze and bread as I could stomach. He was maybe eight years older than me, beautiful in a menacing sort of way. We became lovers shortly after. I’m glad it was him that took my virginity, and not some gross dude I might have been forced to blow in a back street if my luck hadn’t changed. We had different partners on and off, but we were lovers to the very day we parted. Hella romantic or what?

But wait...I’m ahead of myself. I gotta rewind to a few years before that. To when eleven-year-old me met our sweet virgin child.

Jesus had about as idyllic an upbringing as an abandoned baby could. Like a young prince in a fairytale, he was left on the doorstep of an orphanage attached to a nunnery. Not some fanatical order full of abstinence and punishment, mind, but a pretty sort of place that belongs on postcards. Add some green hills about and you’d have Maria singing ‘Sound of Music’ in the abbey.

What he lacked in biological parents was made up for by the nuns who became his mothers and older sisters. I doubt if the well-behaved kids he was surrounded with made for stimulating playmates, but at least they would never grow up to be thugs like me. Still, there was a reason he ended up enjoying my company so much. I showed him things no pious choir angel could. Sometimes I wonder if I contributed to his ruin, in the end. If he’d have been better off never meeting me at all.

I’m jumping the gun again. You’ll have to forgive an old man. Age gets to us all, eh?

I began trailing Jesus that fateful day for no other reason than he was hauling a tray of freshly baked pastries to sell at the stall the sisters regularly set up at the weekend morning market. My hungry nose caught him before my eyes did, and I could tell from the too-trusting look on his mooncalf face that he was an easy target. As he was laying his tray on the stall table, I nabbed two of the largest loaves in sight and ran.

What I didn’t count on was my so-called easy mark being a champion sprinter. The nuns clearly fed their charges well; by the time he caught up to me, I was thoroughly winded while he was barely panting. To my astonishment, he wasn’t after me to take back the loaves I’d stolen — but to offer me two more.

“Here,” he said as he held them out. “You must be starving.”

I grabbed his gift before answering, fearing he’d change his mind. “How’d you know that?”

“Because you’d have bought that bread if you had enough money, instead of having to steal it.”

That statement certainly challenged my worldview. “You don’t think stealing is wrong?”

“It is. Of course. But — more so if you don’t need to, I guess. Like...if you already have enough, and keep taking and taking.” And he could tell even then that I didn’t have enough _anything._ I was grimy and stinky and my shoulder bones were starting to stick out again. I'd even started to lust for the halfway home’s heaps of tasteless grey potato slop.

“Listen,” he said after a while. “If you want, I’ll keep giving you food when I can...whatever leftover pastries we have, and anything I can sneak from the kitchen.”

“And?” I waited for the catch. “What you want in return?”

“Just promise you won’t steal from anyone else.” I arched a cynical eyebrow, and he settled for something more achievable. “Promise me you’ll try. You might get caught and get locked away, and I don’t want that to happen to you.”

I knew a kid like me wasn’t about to get thrown in jail. But the thought of being hauled off to some dull grey reform institute where I’d likely waste away before my eighteenth birthday made me give my vow. Of course, I’d break it not too long after. But he wouldn’t find out until we were both grown men.

Over the next two years, we became fast friends who would sneak out — or in my case, sneak in — to see each other. I’ll always remember the night he smuggled me into his tiny but comfortable, if somewhat spartan, dorm room. The space had up till recently been shared with a kid who’d been adopted. He let me have the spare bed, only allowing me to jump in after I’d first had a good rinse. I’m telling ya, having a Proper Bed to sleep on after the benches and floors of street urchin life made me feel like a king! And don’t get me started on Privacy, which up till then was a thing that happened to other people. Rich people, or characters in books and movies. In the place that had housed and fed me when my mother failed to, we slept on rusting iron bedframes you could feel through the thin mattresses. The beds were almost shoulder to shoulder: less space to roll around in than a prison cell! (I’d be acquainted with that too at some point in my life, but let’s not go there just now.)

Those three years were some of the best times of my spotty, malformed childhood. During the day Jesus would bring me food and make me show him around the various nooks of the city he’d never have dared wander through alone. I showed him a corner of an abandoned building where a family of speckled grey doves had made their nests; he was delighted, and then devastated when the building was reclaimed and destroyed to make way for a bunch of shophouses. He’d have adopted all those doves if he could, likely hiding them beneath his bed the way he hid me in his room.

At night, my profane urchin feet would sneak into the sacred grounds of the holy sisterhood and make their way to the orphanage dorms. I would push him the comic books I swore were not stolen but borrowed from the public library (I wasn't lying; I returned them on time, and the librarians never caught me). While he devoured the colourful pages of the X-Men's Jean Grey saga, I'd thumb through his old childhood prayer books with fascination. I never did develop a love for reading, but the colourful pictures drew me in. “Are these stories real?” I asked him. “Did God really do all that?”

“It’s possible. God is capable of all sorts of things.”

“What, like a magician? Can he make things just...disappear? Or kill someone by snapping his fingers?”

“No. Only people kill other people. He...well, He makes the plants grow and keeps the sun and planets turning, and all."

“I thought that was like, gravity or something.”

“Well, God made gravity too. Through Him all things are possible.”

I raised my eyebrows at him. “If he’s so great, then why’d he let my dad run away and my mom become a heroin junkie?”

He fell silent then, the adventures of Jean Grey momentarily forgotten, and frowned at his lack of answers. Later, as I was falling asleep in the little bed that eleven-year-old me considered the height of luxury, I heard his usual nightly prayers tinged with a bit more angst than usual thanks to the doubt I had unintentionally planted in his head. In the midst of it all, I heard my name being whispered. He was praying for _me._ Asking God to keep me safe and happy. I never did believe in a God, but I believed in the goodness of the human heart, even if it was in short supply where I came from. My own wicked heart swelled with warmth at the sound of my name coming from one of the best people I had ever known in my life. I slept soundly and sweetly that night, feeling as close to loved as I had ever felt.

For a while, I truly _wanted_ to be good. And it’s _much_ easier to be good when you’re well fed and have a clean soft place to rest your head every night. Wouldn’t you agree? I guess such an upbringing served Jesus well; he’d continue sticking by his principles even when he was struggling to make rent and skimping on coffee and milk. Kids like me had little hope of growing into such principled adults. Outside of our friendship, hooking up with Eleazar was probably the best thing that happened to me. It’d keep me in relative comfort and style until the day I joined my Galilean brothers and began to give back what I owed. As the song goes, “Everybody’s got their dues in life to pay.”

~

Jesus woke the next day to the memory of the man whose presence had laced his dreams with both guilt and pleasure. He had felt like a giddy teenager when he climbed onto that large thrumming machine (he had never been on a motorcycle before) and clung to the firm, muscled shoulders as the world around him became a blur of wind and gravity-defying speed. The road had moved like rushing water beneath their bodies, and it was all he could do to hang on to this dangerous man he had both loathed and been terribly drawn to from their very first meeting. Just recalling the smell of his cologne made Jesus ache sweetly between his legs.

His hand crept down to touch himself — hesitant at first, then with ever steadier strokes. He had not done this in a long while. Every once in a while he’d feel the urge to, but never had the need gripped him so strongly that he was dizzy towards the end, unbearably aroused by the very thought of Judas pinning him down and having his way with him, making his heart race with fear and anticipation. He felt stained with the man’s crimes when he came with Judas’ name on his tongue, and mingled with the dirt was a glow that left him warm and sated, if only for a while.

Only after the glow faded did he feel the creeping guilt sink its fingers in. This was the very same man whose presence in James’ shop he had so strongly opposed. A man who stood for everything about this town he was against. And yet it had taken but a few brief moments for him to fall victim to his own lust.

A wry smile crossed his face at the memory of the nuns who had raised him: specifically, Sister Bernadette’s lessons on the weakness of the flesh. The ones that all orphans on the cusp of pubescence were inevitably subject to. Such weakness, they were told, was not an evil to be feared, but an impulse to be tamed and controlled lest it lead them astray. 

“And where will it lead us, exactly?” a classmate had asked.

“Down the road to perdition,” came the severe reply.

“And something else that starts with a ‘p’,” snickered someone from the back. Sister Bernie had whipped her head around and cast her sharp eyes all around the classroom, looking for the culprit and frowning fiercely until the tittering subsided.

Naturally, any efforts she made to avoid answering the questions that came naturally to budding adolescents were futile. Her charges were educated sooner or later by their older brethren regarding the numerous paths to that dreaded perdition, each one more fascinating than the last.

And what of the path he was on now? Was it too late to retrace his steps, when he secretly wished to be led further astray?

He lay in bed for a while more before sliding out and enjoying a hot fragrant brew courtesy of Simon’s gifts. With steaming mug in hand, he wandered over to the window from which he could just make out the cross junction off the main road where Judas had left him. The memory of the broad leather seat between his thighs and the hot chrome against his calves felt almost erotic. Even now, it made his knees weak and his face warm.

He'd never before wanted so badly to be touched and held in all the ways he had never been touched before. He might have gone half a lifetime never missing such pleasures before they had slid unbidden into his head when Judas looked at him with those electric eyes. He wanted the entirety of the forbidden fruit, but would gladly have settled for a kiss. That, at least, did not come with the danger of the unknown. 

He had kissed a girl once before, beneath the sprawling cherry tree behind the abbey. He was fifteen, and she a day away from eighteen, due to leave the orphanage by the following month. Her name was Rachel.

"If you were a year older, I'd let you touch my breasts," she had said in the forthright manner that had so charmed him. "Sister Mariam says that anyone younger than sixteen is not of age to be initiated into carnal acts." Mariam was a bit more liberal than the stern Sister Bernie, and those curious and brave enough to ask would be enlightened in the mysterious workings of the human body, often with a wink in her eye. She also warned them of things they’d be ill advised to try until their minds and bodies were ready. It was rumoured that more than one girl had run crying to Sister Mariam after fearing they’d be burdened with the unintended result of an impulsive tryst the night before, and that she had quietly supplied them with the cure to prevent a moment of carelessness from taking root in their bellies.

Jesus would have appreciated her presence now, fraught as he was with the urge to pursue a man he'd do best to avoid. She would surely have been able to tell him why someone like Judas could make his heart pound the way it did. Or if it was wrong to want to belong to someone who had threatened to hurt his friend, whose hands were stained with the suffering of others. And whether or not any of it mattered when Judas’ lips came within kissing distance of his own when they had parted. 

He gazed back out the window and into some distant reverie beyond the thin clouds sailing across the morning sky. If he closed his eyes, he could still smell the man’s aftershave. The sharp, faintly musky scent that would surely haunt him to death until he laid to rest the demons of his lust. 


	3. The Bitter and the Sweet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> can a history of hardness and pain lead to happy endings? one can always hope.

In a small smoke-filled venue that for all apparent purposes served as a standard pool joint, Judas watched the man known as Quick Hand Luke — and one of the Salems’ most ruthless members — pocket three consecutive shots and sweep any chance he had of winning this game right off the table. With victory already gleaming in his eyes, Luke shot down the 8-ball in a casual, almost louche move, the deft movement of his cue indisputable proof that he had earned his nickname.

He smiled and accepted the handful of bills Judas shoved in his direction. “That’s the last time I let you goad me into a game,” the latter grumbled.

“Don’t be a sore loser, Iscariot. You beat me at deuces often enough. Consider it timely revenge.” Luke’s sallow smirk turned into a keen look as he peered over Judas’ shoulder, like a bird of prey who had spotted a field mouse and suddenly realised it was hungry. "Well, look at that. Some girl scout got lost on the way to cookie camp.”

Judas turned to see what his colleague was looking at. “Shit.”

Luke mistook his cursing for alarm. “Yeah, could be a spy. Or a cop. That schoolboy look’s probably a front. Should I alert Tomas?”

“No. I got this.”

When Judas recalled the incident months later, his imagination would romanticize the moment with the perpetual haze of smoke parting to form a halo around the irritatingly attractive man he had been pushing to the back of his mind. In a most inconsiderate move that nullified his efforts, Jesus had decided to turn up _here_ of all places. Right in the midst of a Salem stronghold. Luke’s comparison was not far off; in that den of killers and extortionists, he stuck out like a bright-eyed child utterly at odds with his surroundings.

He approached Judas with that endearing mix of bare-faced courage and naivete, unaware of the leering eyes that watched him from the plentiful shadows. Judas did not move from his spot near the pool table, grip tightening around his cue, all too privy to the predatory stares fixed on Jesus’ back.

“How did you find me?” he asked.

“I know this pub is Salem territory. Figured I’d try my luck.”

“You’re not wrong. This ‘pub’ is an illegal gambling hive owned by a Salem loanshark who slices fingers off bad paymasters. You’re lucky you still have all of yours.”

Jesus’ eyes widened as he realised the recklessness of his actions. He cast his gaze about before Judas tugged him away into a corner. “Don’t fucking do that.”

“Do what?”

“Look about as if you’re scanning the crowd. Most of the patrons here are familiar faces. And you’re not. There are people here who think you’re a narc or undercover cop, for fuck’s sake.”

“Ohh.” He bit his lip and fumbled, clearly embarrassed by his artlessness. “I shouldn’t have come.”

“Damn right you shouldn’t have.”

“I’m sorry.” Jesus fiddled with a lock of hair. He looked so lovely and vulnerable that Judas was filled with the ridiculous urge to hold the man close and threaten anyone who dared hurt him.

“Don’t be. You’re not causing danger to anyone except yourself.” Judas shifted uneasily. “Though it’d be better if you left.”

“What...right now?”

“It’s not that I don’t find you fascinating.” Judas allowed himself a hint of a smile, and his heart skipped a beat when Jesus smiled back. “But you being in here is...suspicious. Most of the people in here wouldn’t hesitate to slice you up, and the rest would be happy to watch.”

“But they’re _your_ people. You can...you could just…” Jesus faltered as he realised again that he was being naive.

Judas knew it wouldn’t be easy explaining why he couldn’t do jack shit to someone utterly foreign to the shady side of the world he occupied. He knew also that never seeing each other again would be the best thing for both of them. 

“You should leave,” he said at last, a little more brusquely than he intended.

Stricken by the abrupt cold shoulder, Jesus began fumbling for words, shy and uncertain and rather different from the man who had confronted him with blazing eyes the first time they’d come face to face. “Look. Uhm. I — I was wondering if…”

“If what?” _God. He’s not asking me on a fucking date, is he?_ Although if he was, Judas didn’t quite trust himself not to say yes. 

“Listen,” he said before Jesus could continue. “Whatever you’re about to ask, the answer is most likely no. So don’t get your hopes up.”

“I just wanted to —”

“Not now. Not here. Now get out, if you know what's good for you."

When Jesus stood rooted to the spot, he let a threatening edge creep into his voice. “Didn’t you hear me the first time? Beat it.” He started drawing away. “And don’t come looking for me here.”

“I just want to talk to you — if we could go somewhere —”

He shoved Jesus right in the chest, just hard enough to send him reeling back. “Are you stupid? I said _beat it!”_

He turned away resolutely, willing the other to walk away and make things easy for them both. But when he looked back over his shoulder, he saw to his dismay that Jesus was trembling and on the verge of tears. _Oh god. Please don’t cry,_ he thought frantically. _They’ll know you’re not a cop or any kind of threat, which might well be even worse. They’ll tear you apart just for being a stranger. For being soft and foolish and too good for this place._

To his relief, Jesus managed to steady himself enough to stiffen his back and walk away with head held high. Judas tried not to watch him go. His heart was heavy with regret. He hated knowing that he’d hurt such a beautiful creature, even if his intentions were good. 

“It’s for the best,” he whispered to himself. Luke’s hand was on his shoulder, wearing his usual smirk again.

“Scared off that narc real good, did ya?”

“Was almost too easy,” he replied unfeelingly, hiding his turmoil well as he let Luke coax him into another game of pool he wasn’t about to win.

* * *

Love can keep you alive, but sometimes love is a death wish. That’s what I heard someone say. Can’t recall who: a singer in a smoky bar like this one, maybe, or my own mama dropping bits of drug-laced wisdom that just happened to fall on my ears at a time when kids pick up the darndest things.

What I’m saying is, infatuation makes fools of us all. But what would we be without it? Without the hopes of a happy ending? These fools would have their illusion, for a good while. Love can only save you for so long before it starts shaking the foundation you built your life on.

Pass me the last beer, will ya? And then maybe we’ll move on to something harder. You might need it. There are things I’m about to tell you down the line that won’t be easy to swallow. Let’s just say I’m not the only one in town with a sad story. Although when life’s been bad to you, you take sweetness where you can find it, and hope you don’t taint it with the bitterness that is part and parcel of you.

* * *

Jesus was glad for the long walk to his car. He could almost pretend his warm face and pounding heart was a result of the exertion and warm evening, not the awful humiliation that chased him all the way down the street. But then the ache and the stinging in his eyes grew until he could hold it back no longer. By the time he slid into the car and locked the doors, his tears were flowing freely, salt seeping past his lips as he leaned his hot forehead against the wheel and stayed that way until the trembling ceased and his vision cleared enough for him to drive safely home.

"Stupid," he berated himself, wiping the wetness from his face. _What were you even thinking?_ His obsession had turned him into a foolish teenager, and he was lucky to have paid with no more than wounded pride.

 _That's all it is,_ he told himself. _Being rejected hurts. It happens to everyone. You’ll get over it._ There was no reason to be so greatly upset. So he’d been turned away. Someday he would likely meet someone else who might arouse the same depths of lust, and perhaps be more willing to relieve him of it. And if they didn’t...well, it was no great loss.

Except that the attraction went beyond lust. He knew that now. When those eyes had hooked him in, when Judas had pulled him into the shadows to keep him safe from suspicious eyes, he knew he would have been content simply to be within touching distance of the man. To feel their hands intertwine and allow their walls to dissolve as whatever it was that caused the air between them to warm transcended the contrasting lives they now occupied.

He was supposed to be headed home, having had vague plans of making a stew for dinner, but ended up detouring and driving aimlessly for a bit before finally circling back to his intended route. Just as the hurricane that had roused hot tears of hurt and shame as he walked away from that small smoky bar finally settled, it threatened to stir again when he saw that leather-and-chrome machine parked on the sidewalk ringing the apartment square where he lived.

He wondered how on earth Judas had found him before realising the motorbike was parked not far from where he had dropped Jesus off on the fateful night that had sealed what he thought was a mutual attraction. Except that Judas had made it clear he wanted nothing to do with Jesus.

So what was he doing here? Did he really need to drive home the point twice? Once again the burn of rejection rose within him, and once more he swallowed it down and looked determinedly ahead as he drove past the figure standing on the sidewalk. Jesus saw Judas mounting his bike and giving chase for a bit. He stepped on the gas and turned at the corner more sharply than usual, hoping to shake the man off.

But it was impossible to avoid Judas after he had parked his car and was forced to pass the short stretch of street flanking his apartment block. He saw the figure approaching from the corner of his eye and ignored it even as new tears started welling in his eyes, much to his annoyance.

A hand reached out to grab his shoulder. “I didn’t mean what I said.”

He stopped in his tracks, gaze still averted. “You told me to leave. You pushed me away.”

“I just wanted to keep you safe.”

He crossed his arms, fighting the urge to close the gap between them. “So why are you here now?”

“I don’t know.” With eyes firmly on the pavement, he heard Judas,bridging the distance with each footstep, and tried to pull away. But something kept him locked in place. “Maybe for the same reason you came looking for me.”

“I don’t know what I was thinking. You were right. I was being stupid.”

“So was I, when I offered you a ride. But I don’t regret it if you don’t.”

Jesus looked up to see those piercing eyes looking right into his without a trace of threat or defensiveness — only naked sincerity, clear as day. And just like that, the shreds of his defenses crumbled into dust.

They stood there for what seemed an eternity, neither unsure of what the next move should be, or who should make it first. “I’m making dinner,” Jesus said at last, fiddling with his shirt tail. “Would you like to…”

“Join you?”

“If you’ve nothing better to do.” He shrugged with a casualness they both knew was a lie. 

“Can’t think of anything else I’d rather do.”

Jesus felt his heart flutter and the corners of his mouth curving upwards. The cloudy day seemed to brighten as the man he had chased down, and who had chased him back, responded with the ghost of a smile.

~

When Judas was fifteen, he watched a man kill his father with an ice pick to the neck. 

Nightmarish as the sight was, the man’s death was no great loss to the world. He was an alcoholic who alternated between neglect when he was drunk and violence when he was sober. As a child, Judas would make a habit of checking the kitchen shelves and fridge to see if they were well stocked. Whenever dad was down to the last two bottles, he would make himself scarce and hide at the neighbour’s house. For a few good years she would cover for him, swearing on her dead husband she had not seen the boy when the raging red-faced man turned up on her doorstep. 

"Haven't seen head nor tail of him. You know boys his age...scampering about like stray cats."

"Well. If ya spot him, tell 'im to get back before dark if he wants to dodge a pounding."

"I will." She kept the smile on her face until he left. Once or twice Judas would hear her voice tremble just a little as she fought to keep the anger from her calm demeanour. In the haze of his own blind vitriol, his father missed the sight of her hand curling into a fist, seconds away from landing it in his face. After she shut the door, she took several deep breaths and then ruffled young Judas' hair and asked if he would like something to eat. Perhaps that tiny oasis of kindness had been the one thing that saved him from becoming a complete monster (even if he would go on to do many monstrous things, out of duty and love and loyalty).

Life might have been more bearable if a change in career had not compelled her to move across the state shortly after Judas’ twelfth birthday, and he was forced to seek an alternative avenue of escape from what he thought of as hangover rage. Especially as money grew tight and even cheap alcohol grew scarce.

His mother had died when he was seven, from a stroke that occured two days after she hit her head from falling down the stairs. He remembered coming home from school to see his father standing white-faced over her unmoving form. A hoarse sound of panic spilled from those ugly lips as he exchanged a stricken look with his son. For a brief horrible moment, Judas had suspected his father of killing her — of pushing her down on purpose with a malevolent look in his bloodshot eyes. It wouldn’t be the first time he had hurt her, after all.

The changes began after her death. The drink that drowned his sorrows threatened to drown them both in the waves of mad fury that would grip him during the inevitable hangover. After the sanctuary of the neighbouring house disappeared, he sought safety in the company of those old enough and mean enough to ward off potential threats. As he bore the mocking jabs of the older kids he hung around with after school, the ones who wore their jeans low-slung and their smiles knife-sharp, they tolerated and then grew to accept his presence, until he became one of them and they'd call his name from afar when they spotted him around the neighbourhood.

At some point, he became acquainted with one of the boys’ older brothers: Tomas Espada of the notorious Salem gang. Something about Judas endeared the boy to him; they became fast friends within weeks of knowing each other, and it didn’t take long for him to start treating Judas as his own.

“You tell your old man not to touch you again, chico,” Tomas had said when he found out about the abuse Judas had suffered. “Or I’m gonna kill him for you, mark my words.”

And then one day, after a particularly terrifying fit of rage in which his father had beaten him nearly unconscious, Judas ran to his adopted older brother, calling on him to make good on those words.

He didn’t immediately make up his mind, of course. When the world finally stopped spinning and the blood stopped trickling from his nose, he lay against the linoleum for a good long while and watched the small crimson pool dry into a crusted maroon and fantasized about driving a kitchen knife through his old man's eye. It would be easy, after all. He simply had to wait till the man was stone drunk and too slow to hit him.

But it took courage to kill, and more still to kill your own father. And he knew he'd never be strong enough. So he went to Tomas and crumbled into a snot-nosed weeping mess before he could form his request. He had barely cried more than a few tears through the entire stretch of years he’d had to live with his father’s fists and knees chasing him down. It seemed as if the horrors that took place behind the walls of the house he used to call home finally caught up with him.

In the end, he didn’t even need to say the words. Tomas looked with stormy-eyed sympathy at his battered face and asked softly: "Do you want me to take care of him, chico?"

After a few seconds, Judas nodded. 

The next day, Tomas followed him home, and they entered quietly while two other Salem members were posted outside in case Judas’ father turned violent and backup was required. They saw the man Judas had once loved and now loathed with every fibre of his being fast asleep on his favourite reclining chair. When Tomas’ ice pick found his jugular, he jerked awake and his terrified eyes fixed on his son, begging in choked gurgles for mercy. Judas tried in those seconds to feel some sadness, some scrap of mourning for the dad who had once given him piggybacks and made his favourite breakfast every weekend. Once upon a time, when both his parents were alive and everything was right with the world. Instead he was filled with numb relief when his abuser finally toppled lifeless to the floor.

He felt nothing when he stumbled out into the daylight with Tomas’ arm around his skinny shoulders. The gratitude came later, when his big brother brought him to a McDonald’s and got them both a couple of greasy Big Macs and fries. On that day their bond was sealed. Two years later, he became the youngest of the Salems, skilled with a knife and an ice pick: the same weapon that had saved him from his monstrous father. 

And he would remain unerringly, unquestionably loyal to the future leader of the Salems until he met another man who would change his life.

~

Three days later, they were drawn to each other once more. This time their lips met as soon as Judas crossed the threshold of Jesus’ door. When Judas’ hands slid underneath the rumpled shirt, Jesus gasped and let his tongue in the way he had hesitated to the last time. They had parted with little more than chaste exchanges, laced with the tentative sweetness of children discovering what grown-up love could be. If it was new to Jesus, who had never done more than kiss, it was newer still to Judas. He had not known such tenderness for the entire length of his life, and this blossoming heat extending from his heart and flowing out his throat, his every pore, felt like a miracle.

The sweet sound of desperation that spilled from Jesus’ lips when he held him tight and burned a trail of stinging kisses down his neck drove Judas mad. Jesus confessed there and then that he’d never been kissed or touched like that before. That he had dreamt of this moment while simultaneously fearing it.

“If you’re not ready, just say so,” Judas whispered against his collarbone, continuing to leave a trail of tiny red marks on the tender skin, each drawing a gasp and making Jesus cling tighter to him.

“Will you stop if I ask you to?”

“Just say the word.”

They fell to kissing again, hungry mouths exchanging quickened breaths, until they parted with fire in their bellies and loins and Jesus asked, almost shyly: “What do we do now?”

In response, Judas lifted him off the floor — enjoying his gasp of delight — and carried him to the small room with the bed that was just big enough for them both. He could have spent forever suspended in that moment, Jesus clinging to him with head falling lightly against his chest, that perfect weight in his arms so trusting and sweet.

Once Judas laid him on the edge of the mattress, he knew this would be a first for him as much as the other. Sex he’d had plenty of; the much more intricate act of ‘making love’ (which he had grown up thinking of as a thing people did in movies) he had only a vague idea of. Only when Jesus’ fingers faltered and fumbled over the act of undressing did Judas push his hands aside with uncharacteristic gentleness and unbutton his shirt for him, sliding it off his shoulders, followed by the rest of his clothes. He was suddenly conscious of Jesus’ eyes wandering over the tattooed canvas of his flesh when he peeled off his t-shirt.

"See anything you like?"

Jesus reached out tentatively and ran his fingers over the swirls of ink. "It's hard to pick a favourite," he replied with a small grin. 

"Mmm. You'll have plenty of time to make up your mind."

"I hope so." 

Judas' eyes moved to the small bedside drawer. "Don't suppose you have any lubricant in there."

"N-no." A flush crept up his cheeks. "I should have…"

"Doesn't matter." There were other things they could do that didn't require it, after all. He guided Jesus' hand down to the swell of his cock and watched the colour in that lovely face deepen as he showed Jesus how to stroke him to further hardness. "You've done it to yourself, surely," he teased. "Or did that school of yours teach you that God is watching each time you masturbate?"

He bit back a giggle. "One of the Sisters told us it was better to masturbate, than to risk chasing what such impulses can lead to."

"Good. Then you know what to do." Judas let go of his hand and slid his own between Jesus' thighs. "Lie back. Open up for me."

With quivering breaths, Jesus did as he was told and parted his legs to let Judas pull and push him to the edge of mad bliss, only to withdraw when he was on the cusp of orgasm. He was glad for the skilled manipulations preventing him from climaxing embarrassingly fast, even if being denied it felt like torture.

"Please," he sobbed and sighed, not knowing what he was pleading for.

"I like it when you beg," said Judas, those words alone making him lose his mind as he arched and writhed and savoured the thrill of the man’s hardness and weight pinning him down. At some point he realised he had forgotten, in the throes of his pleasure, about that of his partner's. 

"I'm sorry…" He reached clumsily for that stiffened sex pressing against his thigh.

"Don't worry about it." Judas' voice in his ear, thick and rough with lust, made him weak with helpless arousal as much as the strong hand holding him down while the other brought them both to the brink of that cliff and sent him tumbling into mindlessness. He cried out with the jolt of white-hot bliss that simmered down into a warm haze of overwhelming contentment, vaguely aware of the sticky mess on his belly and upper thighs. It felt wickedly wonderful being marked with the mingling of their spend. He shivered at the oddly delightful sight of Judas wiping some of it off and licking his fingers, savouring the taste of their lovemaking.

"Was that alright?" he asked Jesus after they'd cleaned themselves up and lay heavily side by side.

"Alright? It was _wonderful_." 

"Good." Judas stretched out lazily, and then rose from the bed.

"Wait. Where are you going?"

"Why, is there anything I missed out?" 

"I...no. I just thought…" Jesus lowered his eyes, feeling suddenly awkward and vaguely ashamed as he pulled at the covers. “Did I do something wrong?”

“ _No._ Of course not.” He frowned at the wounded confusion flickering across Jesus’ face until he was struck with realisation.

"You don't want me to leave?" That was new to him, too. Then again, so much of the sex he'd ever had was either transactional or lasted no longer beyond the exchange of physical satisfaction. Hanging around for much longer generally felt pointless, even inconsiderate, as if he was taking up space.

As for Jesus, he didn't know what he needed until it had been unknowingly withheld. The emptiness he had felt at the threat of abandonment reverted back to a deep, wonderful warmth when Judas slid back into bed and pulled him close, holding him as he needed to be held.

"Will you stay for a while?" he whispered.

"I'll stay a lot longer than that if you'll have me." Judas was surprised at his own words, at the startlingly naked confession of longing. But he didn't regret them. Not when they felt so right with Jesus' soft hair and soft breaths nestled against his hardened heart that was now frighteningly tender as it had not been since he was a child.


	4. Escalation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Opposing forces threaten to tear the lovers apart. An innocent is attacked, triggering a call to arms.

As the newly made lovers lay wrapped in each other’s arms, Luke was disclosing the details of Judas’ deception to the leader of the Salems over a game of rummy. He had seen Judas with his arm around the very same man he had chased from the gambling den the day before: the one he had led everyone to believe was some undercover cop. 

At first Luke had thought little of it. He himself had pretended at kinship and closeness before only to knife the victim of his playacting in a hidden corner. But when he received news of another sighting a few days later, his instincts had prickled. He had sent a couple of lowers to do a little digging, and gleaned from their reports that his misgivings were not unfounded.

“He’s not just dallying with some pretty face, see,” Luke said as he gathered and shuffled the cards after losing the last round. “According to Ekin and Andrei, this man, Jesus, is linked with not one but two Gallies.”

Tomas’ dark stare bore into his forehead. “And they are?”

“Simon Zealotes, Eleazar’s lover and right hand man. And James Asluga, brother of Nathan Asluga.” He cut the cards, shuffled them again. “A bit more digging also revealed that one of the two food drive enterprises founded by Jesus just outside the west Salem border is partially funded by Galilean cash.”

“Is Judas aware of this?”

“Someone as sharp as him? I doubt he’s completely in the dark.” Luke continued distributing cards around the table, which had fallen silent at his proclamations. “It’s not quite sleeping with the enemy. But close enough.”

“I’ll talk to him. In the meantime, keep an eye on this Jesus.” Tomas picked up the hand he had been dealt, rearranging them into a ladder. “Not the first time this shit has happened, and it won’t be the last. We all make mistakes. The important thing is to rectify them.”

Luke nodded. “And fast.”

* * *

Small world we live in, don’t ya find? Just gets smaller as you get older. But even when I was young and hungry for blood, the streets were already plenty narrow. Seems the town wasn’t quite big enough for the both of us: the Big Two warring over territorial rights and who had the right to love whom, on the rare occasion that something as soft as love was even allowed to thrive. Love for one’s own fraternity, one’s own affiliation, was the only kind allowed. But even when I’d been initiated and indoctrinated, such things find a way if you let them. Love, and friendship, and things worth fighting — and some say dying — for.

At the time teenage me met Eleazar after trying to steal his wallet, he owned a workshop fixing and modifying cars, with the bulk of his customers hailing from a then-booming illegal drag race scene. And one of those customers was none other than Jesus’ future lover. Like I said, small world.

I didn’t know then that Judas was a loyal Salem boy. He was a good few years older than me, more on El’s level than my own, and likely saw me as some snot-nosed punk at first. I was a good grease monkey, helping my boyfriend jack cars and change tyres and prep paint jobs, the works. Somehow or other, me and Jude got to talking. We even went head to head in races. Came close to beating him several times. I was one of the best cannonballers, or sprinters, during my years on the scene — runs involving short tracks and big bursts of speed. But on longer roads, I was no match for him. And the way he swept those corners…! No one, and I mean _no one_ could drift like Judas. He was one of those drivers who turned it into a high art. I bet Jesus would come in his pants just watching him, he was that good.

Speaking of Jesus: we kind of lost touch after I fell in with El and the Galileans. I don’t recall if I made a conscious decision to keep a distance, if some part of me was afraid he’d disapprove and cut ties with me. I knew in hindsight that I should’ve thought better of him. But I guess it doesn’t matter. When we were reunited years later as adults, we would find our friendship as solid as ever. I was a seasoned devil’s harlot by then, and he a slightly frayed social worker who volunteered at soup kitchens on his day off. As soon as we started talking, our shared memories of hidden dove nests and the covert trading of food and books and trinkets were all we needed to pick up where we left off.

“Mind you, I _was_ mad at you for disappearing the way you did,” he had said. “Mostly I was upset, thinking I’d said or done something to drive you off.”

I hugged him in lieu of a long-overdue apology. “I didn’t want you to know where I’d ended up. God may have saved you, but he sure didn’t spare much thought for a street tramp like me.” In other words: living on a prayer won’t keep you living for long.

To my surprise, he agreed. "I stopped believing some time ago," he confessed, looking unreasonably ashamed. "Not in God, but in His ability to do much. I suppose it's up to us to save ourselves. And to be kind to each other." He gestured to our surroundings, to the small but well-organised kitchen dishing out meals for the homeless. The ones who had nothing to give and so fell outside of the sphere of protection offered by the Big Two.

"Amen, brother."

My friendship with Judas is a slightly less wholesome story. As a handful of Salems began trickling into the race events, I found out to my great dismay that he was one of theirs. As soon as he discovered I was a Gallie boy, he turned from me as if we’d never shared a drink and a smoke after those late night races when our modded-out machines had come close to crashing. Don’t blame him a whit, of course. That’s just the way things work in this town. _The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb._ Yeah, that’s the saying in its full form! And it’s the opposite of what people think the bastardised version means. The bond you form with found family — whether that family is a choir of nuns or a pack of thugs — overrides the loyalty you may have to the biological kind. And that’s what the three of us have in common: we had to find family where we could get it.

Roz, you’ve not been watering down the whiskey, have ya? Tastes a bit off. Don’t have the kick it used to, and I’ve been chugging the same vintage for the past five years.

Oh, alright, don’t bite my head off. Must be my tongue getting as hard as my liver.

Once El and I were making love in the back of his workshop, half naked and smeared with black motor oil, when he gripped my thigh harder than he usually did (El always had a soft side when we were alone that he showed to no one else) and growled: “You been in bed with Iscariot?”

“What, you mean literally? He’s hella fine looking, but —”

“You’re tight with him, no? Race buddies and all.”

“Yeah. Nothing wrong with that.”

“He’s a Salem."

My grinding hips came to a halt against his crotch. “Serious?”

The warning grip made itself felt once more. “You stay the hell away from now on. You hear?”

That’s honest to goodness how I found out. And then had the truth confirmed along the stretch of highway that served as our drag track the night after. I wanted to at least have a proper breakup; I was hurt by how a man who had bought me dinner and drinks a week ago, who had even helped me fix my blown engine after a particularly strenuous race, could just look right through me as if I didn’t exist anymore.

We could still have been friends. Good ol’ Jude and I would likely be in touch now if he hadn’t disappeared off the face of the earth with his beloved. After all, there was never any loathing or bad blood between us...not even when we ended up nearly killing each other. But more on that later. 

A shame we never got the chance to get back together. I miss him, y’know. I miss Jesus a whole lot too. A man’s gotta have friends as the years catch up, or before you know it he’s a sad old crab telling tall tales to strangers in a pub...ha! 

Don’t feel too sorry for me, friend. You may’ve been a stranger when you first walked in, but not anymore. Not when you know me now better than my own mama ever did. Pour one out for me, and we’ll toast to friends old and new. Now, on with the yarn…

* * *

A face-off between Ekin of the Salems and Nathan of the Galileans that took place on neutral ground had ended in a stalemate that neither side could let stand. This unresolved conflict that led to a month-long smattering of skirmishes between various members all over town. Unbeknownst to both sides, these scattered clashes were building up into a powder keg waiting for the spark to set it off.

And this spark turned out to be an ordinary moment of carelessness that occurred while James was driving home on an ordinary Thursday night. In a moment of distraction, he hit the brakes too late upon seeing the car ahead of him and rammed into its bumper with a crunching sound that made him wince.

“Ah, shit,” he cursed. And then his blood ran cold when he saw Ekin Lee emerge from the vehicle he had hit. The man was one of the collectors that the shop saw regularly along with Judas. 

He got out of the car with his hands held up in a placating gesture. “Hey, man. I didn’t mean to — whoa, what the —!” Ekin had a gun in his hand, and it was pointed right at James’ head.

“I oughta shoot your nuts off, Asluga,” the man growled. “But I’m in a merciful mood, so I’ll try and kill you quickly.”

“Wait...can’t we settle this another way? I-I’ll pay for the damage. I’ll...look, you can’t shoot me for a scratched-up bumper!”

“You think I don’t know what this is _really_ about?” Ekin’s eyes narrowed as he came closer and James kept backing away. “You’re a fool, Asluga. And you didn’t even bring backup.”

“What…” James was bewildered by the man’s statements. “What are you _talking_ about?”

“Don’t take me for a fool, you Gallie cunt!” James dodged behind his car just before he heard the gun go off. But he hadn’t dodged quite fast enough. “Fuck,” he whispered as the red-hot pain blossomed through his belly and chest. His hand came away warm and slick. 

Ekin loomed over him, ready to put another right through his head and finish it. Then the anger on his face lifted in dawning realisation.

“I’ll be fucked,” he cursed before backing away, sliding into his car and speeding off. The two brothers bore a strong physical resemblance to each other. And in the dark, James had looked an awful lot like Nathan. 

The injury to an innocent affiliated with the Salems’ rivals called for a duel: a time-honoured way of settling a major conflict before it led to all-out war. Eleazar called for a meeting following the incident in the Galilean-owned club where strippers straddled the tables by night. Right now, in broad daylight, the place was empty save for the private room where Nathan paced in a restless rage as Simon sat draped across Eleazar, haloed by the smoke from his cigar.

“Calm the fuck down, Asluga,” he said. “If you think I’ll let this offense stand, you’re showing me grave disrespect.”

“Calm down? With all due respect, that stupid fuckhead shot my _baby brother._ I’ll string his guts from the ceiling of the Devil’s Water!” Nathan roared, referring to the pool bar and gambler’s hub where Jesus had gone looking for Judas.

“Do that, and you might as well offer the Salems your head on a platter.” Eleazar exhaled a trail of tobacco-scented smoke as one hand kneaded Simon’s pert ass in response to his lover’s trail of kisses on his neck. “You will have your revenge. But you will do it properly, not go on a rampage like a jilted lover in a soap opera.”

“Do we know who the Salems are sending?” Simon asked. Both gangs had insiders all over, inconspicuous citizens who were well compensated for their intelligence: a barista here, a nurse there, an elderly janitor who saw everything that went on in a building while going largely unseen himself. 

“Not yet. Might be Ekin himself, except the man’s lousy in a one-on-one fight.”

Simon didn’t envy the person going up against James’ sibling. Nathan was a bit of a mixed bag: at times almost as amiable as his brother, and at others gripped by fits of near-uncontrollable rage. A formidable fighter even when calm, right now he looked ready to rip someone a new asshole at the slightest provocation. 

Eleazar tapped Simon’s back and nodded to Nathan. “Go ease his troubles for a bit, there’s a good boy.”

Simon kissed the side of his mouth and acquiesced, going over to where Nathan had dropped onto one of the leather couches and slithering between his legs. The latter knew what was coming and, after some consideration, parted his legs to let Simon undo his zipper. 

“How’s your brother?” Simon asked as he reached for Nathan’s cock and stroked it till it was firm enough to wrap his lips around.

“Stable. I’m going to the hospital again this evening. It’s a damn good thing he managed to call me in time after he was shot.” Nathan’s rage was ebbing down, replaced with tears he tried hard to hold back. “He’s such a...a sweet boy, you know. And he nearly died because some good-for-nothing cunt couldn’t see straight in the dark.”

“Well. with any luck Ekin will be the one facing you, and you’ll get to remove his eyeballs yourself.” Nathan’s angst was mingled with pleasure now, and he closed his eyes and let his head fall back as Simon’s mouth and throat went to work on his rigid sex. His eyes flicked to where Eleazar sat, knowing his leader and lover was watching. He withdrew to ask Nathan, in a voice both sly and submissive: “How do you like that?”

Nathan did not answer, but laid a hand on the back of his head while glancing at Eleazar for permission. Once it was granted, his fingers curled in Simon’s hair and pushed him down to fuck the waiting mouth with his cock. Simon gasped and moaned around the girth filling his mouth, satisfyingly thick and veiny, feeling himself growing painfully hard and knowing he would get no relief till Eleazar allowed it.

* * *

You look surprised, my friend.That kinda thing’s perfectly normal in some circles. Eleazar and I were more or less exclusive except for when we weren’t, and that’s the way we liked it. You could say it was a semi-open relationship; El liked to share me around, and I liked being shared. I also liked knowing no one could touch me without his express permission, on pain of death or dismemberment if they did. He once took off a man’s dick for daring to grope me under the impression that I was a slut for hire. Did it without blinking, too — in under three seconds! One moment his blade was out, the next it was buried in that poor sod’s sausage.

We were a pair of real exhibitionists, i don’t mind telling ya. There wasn’t a party where El didn’t end up fucking my ass or mouth in front of at least five people. I was no less deadly for being a village bicycle, after all, and anyone who thought I was just a harmless twink soon found out otherwise.

Anyway...never mind the details of my sex life. (You’re not writing a porno, after all. Though if you are, we can arrange another session for _that._ ) Thanks to our diligent collectors of insider information, El found out that the Salems were sending none other than the part-time extortionist and full-time trained killer known as the Iceman for his weapon of choice: an ice pick.

When I found out my old friend would be facing a brother out for bloody vengeance, I knew I couldn’t just do nothing. Have Judas be gutted for another man’s crimes? No doubt he was a stone-cold bastard, but Nathan was nothing to sniff at; he’s been called an artist with a knife for the way he can spill your innards with a few neat strokes. Should the winds of fate decide to blow a little differently — and tip the fight in his favour — he wouldn’t hesitate to deal a long painful death. Never mind that Judas was not the one who had foolishly mistaken James for him in the illusion of night. 

Eleazar was against this change of plans at first. But I can be _very_ persuasive. (Nathan would’ve had my head if he found out I was behind the new arrangement. Seething at the gills though he was, he knew better than to challenge El’s decision.)

Zippo versus the Iceman: the fight of the century! Even if neither of us actually wanted to be there. He did it out of duty. And I did it to save him from dying for it.

* * *

Ekin Lee had made a grave mistake, and now he was paying for it with his dignity. He had all but knelt before Tomas and begged to be allowed to settle the score himself. But Tomas would not have it. 

“Full offense, Lee,” said Tomas, “but you’re no good with close combat. You’re a fine marksman with a hell of an eye, no doubt. Though it’s a damn good thing you missed this time and James Asluga isn’t lying in a morgue.”

Tomas couldn’t afford to send someone who might lose the battle, whose defeat would mark a chink in the Salems’ armour and invite further attacks down the line. He already had a champion in mind. A man raised to be as brutal as himself, and whose skills by now surpassed his own. 

What he didn’t know was that his champion, and the little brother who had once been unshakably, even blindly loyal to him, was committing an act of wilful disobedience.

“Tell me if it hurts,” Judas whispered against Jesus’ panting mouth as he slid in slowly right to the hilt, prompting Jesus to let loose a soft moan. 

“Mmmh. Keep going...like that.” When Judas hit a sweet spot he had not known the existence of until recently, a shiver shook his entire body as he gripped the sheets and whimpered. He shifted his lower body to better accommodate the girth stretching him out and indicated with a breathless nod that Judas should continue.

As for Judas, he found a sort of torturous ecstasy in having to restrain himself from fucking Jesus with the sort of intensity his need demanded. But he would exert as much control as was needed, not wanting to hurt his beloved: the one good unsullied thing in his hard, love-starved life.

Every stolen second they spent together was weighted with risk, their kisses hungry and grasping with each covert union. Judas moved around by cab or train, knowing his monster of a bike was too conspicuous. Through various detours and roundabout routes, obscured by an oversized hoodie, he would make his way to Jesus’ apartment and tap on the door, never the bell, with the secret rhythm they had established.

Four times they had made love, but only once other like this. The first time he was breached, Jesus had experienced some hurt and discomfort he only admitted to after it was all over. He had even apologized until Judas had shut him up with a kiss and an apology of his own (another first for him) for being rougher than he should have. 

Now, as he thrust slowly and steadily and savoured the gradual burn of mounting bliss, he waited for Jesus’ hands to tighten around his shoulders and pull him closer, the hips arching to meet his, before increasing his pace and delighting in the sweet cries that resulted from each thrust: cries that sounded like those of pain, but with enough difference in the timbre for Judas to know the difference. As he was on the verge of climaxing, he wrapped a hand around the flushed cock against his belly and stroked it until Jesus moaned and begged and came undone beneath him, face beautifully flushed as he reached orgasm shortly before Judas did.

“You okay?” Judas murmured, wiping traces of tears from the dark-lashed eyes. 

“More than okay.” He was surprised at the wetness on his face, but not the overwhelming emotions that had caused them. “That was incredible.”

They kissed, and Judas wrapped his arms around Jesus, watching the small contented smile he so loved creep across the soft lips. They lay unmoving in this state of complete and perfect bliss until the first of the two phone calls that would threaten to tear them apart.

Judas heard the insistent vibration against the wood of the small bedside table (that Jesus had made with his own hands) and slowly reached for the phone he was glad he had set to silent. He moved slowly, trying not to disturb Jesus, who had fallen asleep against his chest. His heart stopped for two whole seconds when he saw Tomas’ name on the screen. If the man knew where he was now…

“Hey. What’s up?”

“You heard about Ekin’s fuckup?”

“Caught wind of it, yeah.”

“If Asluga calls for blood, I’ll need to send someone to answer.”

“I guess that someone’s me,” Judas said after a pause.

“Can’t think of a better man than you, chico. I know you’ll make short work of him. But I’ll have Luke as your second.”

“Right.”

“You’ll be well covered, chico. But I know you’ll be fine.”

He felt a small stirring of dread in his gut. The more he carried on with this illicit affair, the stronger its conflict with his way of life became. At times he wasn't sure if what he had with Jesus was an escape from reality, or if these few precious moments constituted the actual reality he was meant to occupy. As if the rest of life was little more than an ugly nightmare.

Being a Salem had been his ticket out of hardship, to be sure. But the price of that ticket was steep, and getting steeper. It had hurt to walk away from Simon — from the first friendship he'd had based not on tangible mutual gain, but simply from enjoyment of each other's company. But he would never turn against Tomas, the man who had saved him when he was young and defenseless. Or so he had thought then.

He was thinking of getting back into racing. It wouldn't be the same without Simon, but it was something else to live for. He smiled as he thought of the scantily clad girls and boys who used to hang around such races, high off the residual adrenaline, offering themselves as a prize to the victors. He had a far better prize to come back to now. Feeling Jesus cling to him and tasting those lips while the smell of asphalt and burnt rubber still lingered on his senses, the thrill of sharps turns in a fast machine running in his veins. It was a scene from the distant dream of a life he would have liked to pursue. One unfettered by the walls and lines that had protected him until they began to trap him like an ever tightening web.

Jesus was stirring and snuggling deeper into his side as he ended the call. "What was that?" he murmured, having heard snatches of the conversation.

"Nothing. Just some run-of-the-mill errands." 

"Mmm. Do you have to leave soon?" The hint of affection and petulance in Jesus' voice filled him with that aching warmth he always savoured and feared at the same time for its ability to render him fragile with love.

“I’ll be here all day. Or until you kick me out."

"I was going to make muffins. The ones I'd planned the last time, before I realised I was out of butter."

"Hmm. Watching you bake sounds like a treat." The very thought was both arousing and oddly fulfilling in the promise of domestic sweetness he had last experienced when both his parents were alive.

“You can’t just watch, silly. You have to help, or you don’t get any of it.”

“Well, if I don’t get any, then _you_ don’t get any.” Judas reached between his legs and teased him while simultaneously sucking at his neck until he was writhing and sighing with renewed need. “And this will be the last time I make you come.”

“You heartless monster.” Jesus made a delightful keening sound before reluctantly extricating himself. “I need to shower.”

“What’s the rush?”

He laughed as Judas tried to pull him back into bed. “Do you want those muffins or not?”

Before Judas could meet him with a rejoinder, Jesus’ phone buzzed. He picked it up and held it to his ear. “Hey, Simon.”

Whatever Simon said drained the happy post-coital glow from his face and replaced it with a look of dismay. “What? How…?” He rose from the bed and began pacing aimlessly on the spot as he absorbed the news being delivered from the other end. “What’s his condition now?...Oh, good." Some relief softened the tense corners of his mouth. "Alright. Sure. Uhm, I’ll drop by later.”

Judas could feel the long, idyllic evening they’d had planned crumble apart even before the call ended. “What is it?” he asked. 

Jesus looked at him with wide, vaguely accusing eyes. “Did you know about James?”

“What about James?”

“That he got shot yesterday. By...by one of your…”

Judas contemplated lying to him, but Jesus’ intensifying stare suggested he already knew the truth. “It was a mistake,” he sighed. “He looked like Nathan in the dark. That bullet was meant for him, not James.”

“And you didn’t think to mention it to me?”

“What good would it have done?”

“He could have died!”

“I know. It was a stupid mistake. I’m sorry it happened to a harmless guy like James.”

Jesus glared at him briefly, as if needing someone to blame for the tragedy that had befallen his friend while knowing it was fruitless. He bit his lip to keep it from trembling. “Did you have anything to do with this?” he asked after a while.

“Not with the altercation that led to this. I promise.”

It was the truth, but he sensed that Jesus would have willingly bought a lie if he needed to. For both their sakes. When Judas’ arms encircled him, he leaned into the embrace and clung on tight. For a while they simply held on to each other in silence as if willing the world to change so they could stay safe in each other’s arms forever.


End file.
